


Letters

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Brief mention of Courfeyrac, Gen, barricade day 2014, brief mention of Jehan Prouvaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wrote every month, each letter arriving at the doorstep of their family home like clockwork." Combeferre's life is measured in summers and letters. A Barricade Day 2014 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters

“A letter is a living soul, it is so faithful an echo of the voice which speaks in it that sensitive spirits count it among love’s richest treasures.” ~Old Goriot by Honore de Balzac

~~~***~~~

He wrote every month, each letter arriving at the doorstep of their family home like clockwork. There were always two, one for the younger Combeferre daughter, Elise, who was 16, and one for his parents. The letters varied in length, but were always lively. To his parents he described his coursework, and his activities, peppering the letter between stories with assurances that he was eating properly and had enough funds and sturdy clothing. To his sister he described his personal studies, the insects he added to his collection and the birds he had spotted in the public parks. Enclosed were cuttings of leaves, pressed flowers, and scientific sketches that delighted her to no end.

It could never be said that Guy Combeferre did not love his family. He did not speak of them much, but when he did it was with great love and admiration.  He thought fondly of the weekends spent picking cherries from their garden, eating them as the shade of the trees grew outward and sun went down. He remembered lessons with his mother on art and biology and languages; thought often of his father with his glasses and warm glances, reading in his library and taking care of his kids when they hurt themselves. Combeferre looked just like him. Both had the same unruly mess of dark hair on their heads, slender spectacles perched on their noses, and glances that could warm you one moment, and make you feel so small the next. When both were hunched over a book, one would be hard pressed to tell them apart.

It was the summer of 1825 that Combeferre left for the university in Paris to study medicine like his father had, and it was from then on his life would be marked in summers and shared in letters. He wrote to his parents upon his arrival.

_I confess that for all that I have seen of Paris in visitations, the city seems to me more foreign and intimidating now that I must navigate it on my own…I have settled into my apartment already. The landlady is kind. She sends her greetings, for she remembered the conversation Elise and her had on art. I have unpacked my books first-for a room without books is like a room without a soul…I miss you all and love you greatly._

It was not long before he began building a group of friends though, brothers even, and so included stories of their sillier exploits in his sister’s letter as well.

_The other day we were walking-Courfeyrac was showing me the way to some newly opened café-and a delightful breeze was wafting down the street, the kind not commonly found in Paris in the summer. Against seemingly unsurmountable odds, the breeze picked up, blowing his hat off his head and into the face of a young man walking behind us. Courfeyrac naturally began to apologize, but the young man just laughed and assured us it was fine as the hat was a beautiful one and one should always welcome beautiful things. We ended up inviting him to lunch with us, and that is how we met Jehan Prouvaire. You would like Courfeyrac and Jehan the most, I should think. You share the same brand of charm and flair for the artistic that delights all around you. People like you and them are the sunshine of the world._

Combeferre included sketches of his friends in the margins, illustrating these mishaps and meetings. These sketches brought the most joy, for she had the artistic sense that her brother lacked. From his sketches she would create drawings of her own, more free-flowing and less rigid. Gardens and clouded skies and narrow streets took shape under her pen, and he saved each one of them.

He mentioned as well the society they had formed for the education of men, but neatly avoided the subject of their education.

Time passed and Paris was not so intimidating now. She was imposing, but playful. She was unpredictable, but with friends at your side, she was not impossible. Summers in Marseille had been languid. Long days were filled with reading and exploring, and evenings with gazing at the stars.  Summers in Paris were electric.  He wrote to his family:

_Escaping the heat is near impossible, but we do our best, utilizing the shade of the trees in the public parks to our advantage, and ducking into cafes for a drink when possible. However, Paris is still scintillating. She does not sit still, even in this heat. There is an undercurrent of unrest that recall to mind the early days of July in 1789. The summer of 1830 will be great, I assure you._

He was not wrong. July 26th saw the passing of ordinances banning businessmen from running as candidates of the Chamber of Deputies, saw the shuttering of factories and closing of businesses doors, saw the throwing of workers onto the street. When one is robbed of their very livelihood, what is left to do but protest?

And protest they did. For three days, they revolted. Shouts of “Down with the Bourbons” and “Long Live the Charter” filled the air, charged with the spark of flint striking metal and the sparking of gunpowder. On the first day, over a dozen civilians had been killed and the some 2,000 street lamps installed were broken. Paris was plunged into darkness, but it had been a long time since she had been so illuminated.  Two days later:

 _By now I’m sure you have heard of what is already being referred to as the July Days. I should have written sooner, but three days on the streets has tired me more than I thought possible. I am safe. I am well, though the same cannot be said for Paris. Charles X has hijacked the revolution. I pray things are better in Marseille than they are here._  

The sparks were extinguished, and 1830 passed.

1831 was quieter. Combeferre in the midst of his internship wrote less often, but made up for it in length. It was the year he wrote of a small child, forced to eat clay because starvation was the only other option. It was also the year he wrote, crying, that he was unsure if he would be able to do what was required of him when the time came, that he was scared. The weight was too heavy, perhaps. For a month he avoided the medical school, avoided the hospitals, and would have done so longer if not for the words of his father:

_Do not give up your compassion. There are too many Doctors with brains in their head but not kindness in their hearts, but be strong. Steel yourself. The wounds of others are not pretty, nor are their problems always solvable, but it is your job to carry them anyways, and when you can do no more, put them down and do your best to alleviate their pain. If it were easy I would certainly tell you, but it is not. You will struggle, but I believe in you as a father and as a professional. As always, we will support you no matter what. With love…_

1831 was the year he finished his internship, and took on the title of doctor.  He prayed for wisdom and strength and peace as he had not prayed in some time, but as the summer of 1830 had been, so would be the year 1832.

The cholera outbreak could not have been predicted. Thousands of people dropped in their homes, with no hope of being cured. Combeferre ran himself ragged between the hospital and the free clinic, sleeping only the minimum amount needed to function. He wrote once in April and once in May asking advice and assuring his family he was well.

_Be careful. I’m sure father has taken all the necessary precautions, but I still worry. The cities breed diseases like rats, and the Cholera spreads fast. The approaching summer heat does not help. I know you understand the gravity of this, but I also know you are sitting there with your teasing knowing smile. Appease your older brother, and be cautious._

Cholera knows no boundaries, death being the great equalizer of all.  Three days later, General Lamarque was dead. Four days after, on June 5th the barricades rose.

                1832 was the year of the revolution.

                1832 was the year he stopped writing.


End file.
